.let's begin: i've been watching youtube haemorrhage over the past few years (4 / 5 in total) and... i do still enjoy the sort of cabaret weimar associated with criticalcondition when comapred to beanie hat tim pool... sorry: i just like a bit of cabaret, i know that comedy is translated in the western lands by stand-up monologues, but in germany and poland: cabaret is the toy assurance to compensate the justifications for theatre or opera... i like criticalcondition, trans-, ******: my my, how did the chemistry prefixes of attachement groups of a benzene ring overpower bio-realism? imagine a blocked toilet in terms of hinduism / buddhism in terms of the metaphysics of reincarnation... well: metaphysics by their great culinary understanding implies: a return to the same debacle, perhaps only slightly elevated... we have already reached a post- gott ist tot scenario of metaphysics... gott is quiet apparent, since the ancient greeks believed that "shamed" men would come back as women: now? the women did a shortcut... they said: tod ist tot... wouldn't that be the case? a blocked toilet, well... if god has to die first, then death itself has to die, ergo: tod ist tot! ha ha... imagine... to think of the glamorous concept of eastern theology as nothing more than a plumber's day-shift... looks like the toilet is blocked... since... men are not spawning into female form after death, instead, deciding to spawn back into male form with a female "brain"... who is that god of mischief in hinduism? oh... look! Aditi! well it's not an isolated case, is it? i once picked up a thai surprise from a park bench, played her some jazz, ****** her in the garden... bangkok ladyboys are the duran duran of 1980s electro-puppy-pop! once god dies, death follows suit... after all... death is (a) shadow of (the) god... blocked toilet metaphysics, all the brahmin as running wild, naked, psychotic: but the lesser men were not supposed to know they were reborn into female bodies, there was that safety net in place to: let them reincarnate with an amnesia principle! what's happening?! the women are raiding up the ranks?! contrapoints compared to tim pool? sorry beanie-boy... you're not the beastie... quiet... i'd love to b.j. that make-up off from contrapoints... problem being... i love when a ****** speaks so much sense... but... hands... i find a woman's hands too be the most ****** aspect of her body... 4/5... that's a fraction... for my five knuckles in terms of hand size, ***** "envy" and what my five knuckles look like to a woman's 4? you get the picture... there is also another fraction... 72 genders?! wha-?! i see gender in the 3/2 fraction... a woman can satisfy three men... the ****, the **** the mouth... a man... can only satisfy 2... the **** and the mouth... oh... wait... 3/3... someone can be giving him a b.j. while he's giving him a b.j..... it's still a blockage of reincarnation though... the greeks believed the lesser man was to be reborn in a "lesser" body... ****, i always forget how the ratio works... i always think: 1 man has 3 options of entry, 3 women have 1 point of entry each... but fraction is wonky though... in that... a woman can entertain three variations of entry: mouth, ****, ****... but a man has to entertain two points of entry and one point of insertion... so the fraction still stands at 3/2... which makes the islamic celestial harem nonsense... unless equipped with an exess of res extensa ****** to satiate the hunger of 72 virgins... a ****** gambit if you ask me... 72 virgins sounds more like a headache than what Solomon forsake in owning for the queen of Shēba... king! Solomon! after all the *******, enough wisdom suddenly trickled into his head, and he chose the route of the monogamy of birds! mind you: whatever wisdom king! Solomon ever had to begin with... i would still favor king David... i like a man with a distrust of women and having an unadulterated desire for music as second to none medicinal property to cure existential ailments; i tried *******, no good... sure, great exercise... esp. with prostitutes... but an in depth analysis of the perpetuated banality of life and how to learn to masquerade it behind a veil of seemingly banal? a harem will not help, but music will. even nietzsche understood this... criticalcondition: i do actually fancy him it her they... she does have that: je ne sais quoi air... weimar cabaret "revised"... not quiet the switz cabaret dada voltaire... but all i know is the number of holes of points of insertion and the fact that i have hands the size that could hold a basketball in one... and how... oh, wow! i really came late to the asian fetish party late... here, have some grenades! **** ying, cat meng, na mu han, you mi, ni ye teng, ai sayama, hoshina mizuki, ayaka noda, (l)im ji hye, lie fei er, (barbie) ke er... ergo? this whole asian fetish scene? am i looking at dolls? i'm not even sure... am i white, by comparison to these procelain babushkas?! i'm not white: orange man bad! i thought so too: i'm... piglet! the i'm not white: these girls are... and the funny thing is, the "funny" thing, is? i don't have to see much more beside the cleavage or the ******* or the thighs to... hey! i'm a late bloomer to this asiatic fetish... side-tracked by the european transgender ******* and the thai surprise ladyboys... what is **** what isn't ****: that, really depends on how much you rely on your imagination... if a sight of white, porcelain cleavage gets you off... who the hell needs the whole "show"... after all... even the niqab is a game on how to arouse the male libido... it's pretty hard to be aroused by a fully exposed female torso like some maasai ivory beauty... then the "said" objects are more functional and designated for feeding purposes... than ***** *******... aren't they?! oh i can see a revision of the niqab... imagine this in saudi arabia... both the eyes are not hidden from view, as isn't the mouth! batman 2."oh"... oh i don't like these new communists in the west... white... priv. who, that japanese?! i'm not white, i said it already and i'll say it again: i'm not a porcelain doll! talk to the **** about white privilege... they're the ones with milk veils... my "white privilege" is only associated to having blond hair, green or blue eyes... it has nothing to do with... skin!

i’m suspicious of the ones that say: without telling the truth
we can moralise, by not stating the truth
we can allow ourselves falsehood in the prime
instinct to provide replicas of ourselves
without truth of two subject interacting,
but merely the truth of two objects interacting
reducible into the dwarf of darwinism
that speaks: over-sexualise and feel less encountered
by understanding the opposite!
so much is true in this era - with the english poodle
waggling in frenzies for the americans to spectate and applaud...
i’ve had to become a german in england,
the sort that might be liked by nietzschean arrogance,
but apart from that i’m working on how
certain people simply use words rather than letters,
how they can never use the shovels and pickaxes,
how this congregation of atheists at comic stand-up shows
is doing my head in: a theological mid-life crises,
this blatant take on theology using the logic:
from monkey you came, to monkeying you shall return...
now that trends like the crown all animals have,
all animals already unique do not need to replicate consciously,
but man is stumbling into wasting his conscious on replication,
on plagiarism... it’s so odd... so so odd! why would man
waste his consciousness to simply invoke replication?
where’s the self in that, the anti-frankenstein story so powerful
he does not wish to do anything other than marvel at
the connectivity of the bone to the nerve to the muscle?
the 20th century gave birth militant atheism -
the 21st century is labouring with a different kind of atheism -
the sort of atheism that says no barriers exist between master and servant
as between worm and pigeon - even though
the depression of the master is opposed to the servant’s depression
that he only spots analogues within the framework of
synonymity with other masters... ‘why are we so depressed?’
asked master a, ‘i have no idea,’ answered master b over lunch.
in the lower decks of the ship servant a says to servant b -
- ‘god, i rowed all day long, i’m so ****** tired!
no thought will keep me awake.’
- ‘that’s true, i’m knackered also, broken limbs of my effort
like a chestnut, no thought will keep me awake either,
lucky we exhaust the body.’
- ‘too true, with the body exhausted the mind is never disputed
never disputed by not having origins in thinking
but rather having origins in the body.’
- ‘verily, i rather our fate than the masters’ fate.’
- ‘why?’
- ‘as you said, our’s is the story of ****** demands,
their’s is a story of thought’s demands,
meaning they exhaust their mind in the accesses
thought provides, it’s like a secondary body we have no knowledge of,
they are exhausted by thinking because their body is not exhausted.’
- ‘makes sense.’
- 'hence their malady of melancholia and our as simple exhaustion.'
- 'where’s the buffer?'
- 'in the olympians, the discus throwers, the most positive lot, and due to this, the easiest
to break down from high positivity; they have no awareness
of complex thinking and are quickly undermined with all this sports’ psychology!'
- 'true to the burning tire... it's all dietary awareness and muscle bulk with them after a loss.'
- 'indeed, as our's is with aesop dreamily awaiting a freedom that’s an anarchy,as translated from aesop's fables into
spartacus' resolve.'
- 'ah yes, that old spartan revolt in the roman empire.'
so like i said, i do know that darwinism is the new super cool sensibility,
taking into account more than 10,000 years of history
and talking about it for 2 hours wishing that something
spectacular might happen tomorrow, or any other given day...
but like i said previously... darwinism just killed history...
outside the realm of journalism we’re talking millions of years...
so why would i give a **** if it’s a friday the 23rd of october in the imaginary year 2015?
well if you put crocodile into a pile of hyenas you’ll probably
get a a cuckoo mixed with a squid because of the beak shared by the two...
i know, atheism is cool, for now,
but when the quantum j provides the classical physics’ objects like jupiter
you’ll ask what the quantum of j is... and i’ll say... full-stop...
that’s because, perhaps, i never use language as:
copy - work - paste - with - copy - me - paste - on - copy - this - paste - one,
but rather...
w - grammatical arithmetic (g.a.) - o - g.a. - r - g.a. - k,
because no one can tell me that the letter j
is uniform in the context of i or k...
as the quantum phonetics of uttering the word
onomatopoeia... is no different from uttering the word bull...
so many variables of spotting the quantum physics
in pronunciation... so many varying levels of required energy
to utter j or k... onomatopoeia or bull -
so... what's the antonym of quantum - the maximum
amount of any physical entity involved in an interaction -
i know that poets speak of grains of sand = no. of stars
and that the mathematicians use the curtain of infinity
to digress... but finding the maximum will be harder
given that there will be no socratic knowledge to use as canvas...
i.e. nothing;
added to the fact that there’s a non-differential quantum
that makes ë and em almost identical in terms of the least energy used,
this humanistic paradox of bonding means there is no unique human
sound that doesn’t borrow another human sound to execute a phoneticism,
otherwise ë and em translate as eh and humming anti-treble of the lips, or finger licking mmm of kentucky.
actually... we have the opposite of quantum physics...
the body functions within an ~37ºC emission...
there are four seasons in a year... the earth's orbit is 365 days,
i just took all the known macro units
and consolidated them in the micro unit of joules undifferentiated
in terms of observable "energy."

every time we fall in love,
they call it trite,
a false fairy tale.

love is weak.
and weak ain't trending no more.

every time we speak our mind,
they tell us to shut up,
too young to have an opinion.

the youth is unreliable,
too many fresh hormones.

every time we stand up straight,
they cross us,
crucify us.

acquiescing is appropriate,
they gift certificates in frames for that.

every time we subscribe to a higher code of ethics,
they call us radical,
salivate, and spectate as we are torn asunder by lions.

love should never transcend national pride,
here it's guns, god, no homosexuals or mexicans all the time.

if i make a stand, and you make a stand,
and the dominoes begin to fall,

if i inspire a dozen, and you inspire a thousand,
the gears will grind, the tide will turn,

the lions will all be too full,
and
they surely will run out of nails,
before they've crossed every single one of us.

superhero holding friendship

I admire, I spectate , I watch and learn and notes I take
On a thunderous beauty, on this breath taking sight
Quivering breath at a mountains height
Those close around I fear they might drown
Terrified of what’s making change
Terror stricken, I flip through pages
that would never be re-written, never changed

I’m waiting for struggle, for flailing arm
for loneliness , peoples pulling up guards
Fences that we build and view as our shields
Just a horrible thing ,that wont let me in
Misunderstanding transforming
Now it’s a black mask of confusion, dooming

I panic at thought spinning around
Head is to full ,I feel for the ground
Darkness threatening my light life
I gasp for friendship and understanding
Then you flew in with a quiet landing
Tiptoeing around you lift me off the damp dirt
Wiping the darkness of my clean world

A new view of refuge, I need and needed you
Just a boy with good intention
Transformed into a superhero holding friendship.
Together walking side by side
we sort through what’s wrong and right
We plan a way to save the drowning
Climb fences and break through walls
Tear down others guards
I walk a walk , no longer alone in the dark.
I have you.thank all that is good
We stand were I stood
I love you

.why? why?! why would i even be, remotely,
concerned?
    esp. with a story from yesterday
akin to that of a feminist poster being
taken down, that read:

    woman
        women
    noun
   adult human female

because some, sorry... i love the word:
****** / doctor "thought" the word:
woman was endangering
transgender people...
                                                 wow!
looks like the homosexuals are on the attack...
can you be a misogynist and a homosexual,
simultaneously? well... apparently you can!
bravo! encore! encore!
    so should i be bothered when such antics
are taking place in: of all places, Liverpool?
**** it, i'm going to have a beer and watch
the sunset - or at least that's what i thought
a few hours prior.

the **** was i doing, watching channel 4
news?!
      i do remember watching it...
why was i watching it?
     for all it's worth...
                they do a pretty solid job,
**** me, they even reported on Iranians
using instagram...
                        gotta love the Shiites...
probably my favorite Muslims...
   given their Persian background -
proud face, like those native Americans
in the film hostiles:
   proud faces...
                        well... if you're going
to root for someone, root for the "underdogs"...
those Persians were never going
to bow down to the camel jockey Arabs,
sure as **** they wouldn't, and didn't...
ah ****...
  that's the problem with drinking,
and writing at the same time...
   in vino veritas...
     shh... it's a secret...
                    one downfall of drinking
and writing...
                      hmm...
                         ­     really hard to tell a lie...
by god it's hard to tell a lie
while drinking...
     why? there's no fun in telling a lie,
spinning a fictive narrative,
marketing character understudies or
fan-bait...
                a bit like:
Chopin...
                     versus a ******* orchestra...
(yeah, sorry about that...
   oath words, i swear,
   are compiled in the category of and:
i.e., they're conjunctions...
   otherwise i'd stutter, or something much
worse, like a writer's block & ****)...
wait...
   what was i going to say?
ah!
   channel 4 news... sure... it pure left,
globalism, multi- blah blah blah
and further blah to the nth term...
i couldn't believe it though!
   obviously the two stories were going
to be spoken about side by side...
     first... the second arrest of Tony Robinson...
apparently yet another, or another yet:
contempt of court...
     scenes from the Old Bailey...
and, d'uh, obviously,
   Jeremy Corbyn opening a placard of
a sq. dedicated to the far right
    "terrorist" attack on... ***...
  can't remember her name...
    Joe... hey Joe... where do you think
you're going with that gun?
Janie's got a gun...
                   this **** never gets old:
Chris Rea: Josephine...
       i send you all my love,
  and every single step i take
i take for you...
i would never believe that so much of
Van Morrison has that many
  jazzy accents in the oeuvre...
moondance:
   and a crisp, cloudless early
afternoon illuminating the birds,
the blues of flowers and the contract
of the about to shoot
  into embers of होली Holī
envious greens...
turmeric, chilli powder,
     cumin, fading cardamon,
garam masala,
                      coriander...
cinnamon,
           then the masalas:
   tandori, achar, tikka....
    then korma and the sri lankan
powder...
blue indians have their celebrations
in spring,
  i'm about to spectate the celebrations
of autumn... win win...
but that's still not the point...
channel 4 news...
  oh ****!
  Gavin!
   Gavin Mcinnes!
    **** me!
          hmm...
   love the tartan suit...
******* looks plush!
about as much style as matt preston
  (from Australian Masterchef)...
**** it,
   i forgot which of the chicken
wings recipes i am supposed
to make tomorrow....
                               *******!
the Azerbaijan recipe, or the...
oh ****... o.k. i can tell the difference
between the porcelain of the Japanese,
and say... someone from Thailand...
whatever... i'll cook something anyway.

A poem should be read aloud
whether to one’s self or to a crowd

It’s meaning lies in being heard
and not the shape of every word

Lest it become calligraphy
hung on the wall for all to see

But poems seen do seldom touch
when compared to one read out as such

For intonation, pace and rhyme
are all heard within the poets mind

As pen commits the words to page
the actors banished from the stage

To reappear when words meet sound
and raise the poem from the ground

To sail on high with majesty
extolling sorrow, mirth or glee

Bring forth emotions penned in ink
and take the reader to the brink

To place you there midst poems tale
for to spectate means poets fail

So stand up son and stand up proud
whilst you read these lines out loud

Feel the smile upon your face
or seen on others your voice did grace

For had you kept this to yourself
might just as well have stayed on the shelf

But bringing voice to wiser words
allows its message to be heard

A message know by self or crowd
that poems should be read aloud

I guess we were bored,
Or looking for something new.
And there was a party coming up.
Someone's hosting debut.
So we thought we'd ask around,
See what else was to do.
And our **** dealer told us
He sold other things too.
He nicknamed it dizz,
And it sounded quite fun.
So we talked all about it,
Decided to get some.
We all pitched in,
Asked for five or ten pounds.
And went and collected it;
Tin foil bound.
Accompanying us
Was a sober mate.
He said it would be fun
To watch and spectate.
So we unwrapped it,
Crushed it,
Poured it,
And drank it.
The taste was disgusting,
Of abstract chemicals.
But we swallowed it down,
A moment; seminal.
They said twenty minutes,
So we sat and waited.
Our hearts were pumping
Way before eight.
And we went downstairs,
Sat on a sofa,
Biding our time,
Sipping on cola...

And there.
What was that.
A feeling.
It entered the chat.
Some warmth,
No stress.
And then a
Very deep breath
Of fresh air
And emotion.
Like emerging from the bottom
Of a very deep ocean
You had been down for years.
Reggae was playing
At very high volume.
And none wanted staying
Where we were.
So we got up keen,
And started dancing.
One even went on the wet trampoline
And bounced
Up, down,
Up, down,
Could've gone till sundown.
And the sky was gorgeous;
Metallic, steel blue
Mixed with orange and yellow.
It was quite the view.
But time was
Moving on,
So we packed up,
And were almost gone
Before keys jangled,
And the door swung open.
A parent walked in,
And caused a commotion
Of boys rushing out,
Mumbling words and plans.
We left quite abruptly,
And sprinted and ran.
Once round the corner,
We couldn't care less.
Nonchalant as usual,
We enjoyed the success.
And we walked and talked
About pure, utter, *****.
The iPhone X, some girls,
And the absolute banger that would be tonight.
So we strolled around,
The sun on our faces,
Feeling elated.
Going some places.

I love you. I will always love you. What we had was so incredible, and so beautiful. Sadly, everything in this world is transient, and so here we are, coming to an end as well. Perhaps there's a chance it isn't the end.. perhaps one day I'll run into you years from now in Powell River, and something may spark again.

Perhaps a few months down the road we'll meet again in Victoria and who knows? You need your freedom right now, though. You aren't ready for a relationship. As much as you love me (and I can tell you love me), you're fidgeting uncomfortably because you don't want to watch life trail on by and see all the could-still-be's turn into the could-have-been's. We're young. We loved each other enough to stick it out for life, but sadly youth is something that still keeps the boat rocking with uncertainty in all regards. I'm afraid to be single again.. I'm afraid of the moments when I sleep with another woman, and I hear your voice in the back of my head. Or when I kiss another woman and forget it isn't you.

I'm going to wake up crying at 3 in the morning remembering some adorable little quirk of yours, and cry and cry and cry until I can hardly breath and come close to choking on air.

There's the saying that I told you the other day.. about how sometimes, 2 people are meant to fall in love with one another, but not be with one another. Perhaps that's us, but it could also be that we just met at 2 different points in life, so I was on a different track than you, and you're still in the mode of a younger mind, unready for any substantial commitment. Which is totally okay! None of this is my trying to insult you.

I hope neither of us get too sick to the stomach seeing one another throughout the city, perhaps holding hands with other people.
We can't be friends for now. Perhaps in a few months we can, but at this point, any attempt at friendship would either still be a relationship.. or it would be a friendship with resentment, where we went to a party together and potentially had to spectate a kiss with someone else and feel like killing ourselves on the spot. So no. Maybe in a few months.. maybe in a few years.. we can be friends.

Maybe we can even be competent lovers once again someday with a little more of the world under our belts and that aching insecurity of 'I didn't have a chance to try this because I was committed' eating away at us from inside. But seriously.. who knows. We'll have to see what happens. Like in the Murakami story, 'The 100% Perfect Girl for Me,' we can trust our future re-encounter to fate. If it's meant to be, we'll meet and love again. If it's not.. well then, it's over. And that's okay. We'll find happiness elsewhere.

Goodbye, Amanda. I love you. Just in case fate doesn't bring us back around anytime in the near or distant future.. I wish you a fantastic and beautiful life full of love and excitement and joy and really great friends, and hopefully, someday, a guy who can treat you like you deserve to be treated.

Have a great life, kittycat.

Bling Bang Boom
Tight little itty-bitty *****
If it don't fit, don't force it
You can lubricate it, so you can appreciate it

Oops, did I say that out loud?
Wearing Dr Dre is a *****, when you make a glitch

**** this gun like a real cool chick
It's barrels aren’t that hot or that ******* thick
And when it comes, blow your brains, while you’re still in cuffs
Elvis offended nerds, while doing those pelvic thrusts
But, he was merely having fun and just being ******* futuristic
While your parents were secretly playing with ***** vibrating plastic

I used to call myself at that time, ‘The Magnificent One’
Hell, I don't call myself that now, but I still believe it to be true
At the time, the frigid white kids would only spectate from the lower balcony
While some ***** white kinds, were leaping over with jealousy, to get downstairs
Because, that's where the black dudes would occasionally perform, their ****** affairs

Bling Bang Boom
Tight little itty-bitty *****
Protect yourself with a little soap bubble
If you want help, I can go pop, without getting into too much trouble

Oops, did I say that out loud?
Wearing Dr Dre can mean defeat when others hear your beat

How can I put the creeps down, when I've been creeping from afar?
I'm another mother ******' world wide pop star
They called me, ‘A Hip-Hop Bipolar Southpaw’
Always left swinging up and down like a friggin outlaw
They warned you that, I would drive all the the kiddies insane
So don't blame me for the way your kids now truly reign

Bling Bang Boom
Tight little itty-bitty *****
Thank you for being so sweet and ever so cute
Next time remind me, to always switch the ****** to mute

Oops, did I say that out loud?

new winds fall upon new skies

a new mask to accompany the new disguise

comprise our lies

of gold wrapping and bow ties

as we need not fear now

the truths will set us free

feeling all better now

just look at me

happily

plastic

why do they write about what's essential... well... ~essential... there's no universal proof of it, or the exhibition of a certain use of the currency of words... the elevated vocabulary... currency... they're at the mercy of a lion, a fox and a lamb compost heap of bone... they write as if the things they're longing for are essential... they're not... they were never meant to be experienced with democratic uniformity, no man is born equal, hence the dream of democracy... the dream of democracy was born from the obvious tradition of inequality... democracy is what stunted the agile strong man from bringing home the bacon, a critique of Christianity is nothing compared to a critique of democracy... how avidly we spectate in affairs of sports where one beats another in a sprint of a boxing match, and then comes this crucifix whining about equality... if Christianity is Platonism for the people... then Democracy is Platonism for the powerful.

either entertainment or no attainment, make a choice! democracy is belittling me post-Victorian with omni-education - they want me
to write an *X when i should be writing my name,
why am i suspicious of democracy?
at least in the alternative you have one, clear, target,
in this ****-hole you have too many to aim at,
and i'm sure, dead certain that we're not selling
nappies in Westminster with all the bold speeches,
is that Mr. Blair trying to wriggle out being compared
to a former Mr., Milosevitch (Milošević: Meelohshevitch)?
there goes the linguistic alphabet,
use the placebo language that doesn't use accent stresses
and apply the languages that do, up yours upside down
omega! /ˈhəʊpfʊl/ v. hopeful, e.g. there;
it was a bountiful night, walking home trying to
find a place that sold the Saturday edition of the times,
didn't find one, stopped in a street,
a house without curtains, plain sight view,
like in the old days, one television per street,
after extra time, Germany v Italy in the quarter-finals,
watched the entire penalty shootout from a street
looking into a stranger's house... the old way of
watching television, the feeling? better than HD,
or flat-screen, whatever quality is to be minded,
Œzil missed, Schweinsteiger too....
now image the lost influence on me by a television,
i didn't eagerly sit till the match ended,
took a few beers for a walk, watched the shootout
like a mid-20th century person, through
a neighbour's / stranger's window -
and all this world around me, happening,
and yet in the vicinity... nothing... a pigeon *******
in flight, a dog barked, a car was parked,
a family photo was taken... even with all this
faking of global unity via the internet and the television...
the world is still largely minute, i know
that globalisation allowed astrophysicists and
darwinists (anti-historians) make bold claims
of the encapsulated individual -
an average ape shaved on an grain of sand
orbiting an average star - our ancestors the cavemen
and the flint - **** me, chicken oven baked in an
hour, egg boiled in 5 minutes for a runny yoke,
a marathon: Radcliffe's 2:17:42 (almost like citing
the bible) - you want me to be conscious of
what came prior so many years ago?! this is *******
ridiculous, it only means we're speeding up -
and the crowning zenith prize of our scientific inquiry
is crippling old age everyone seems to be afraid of...
**** yeah! we are speeding up, having this arm's reach
into prehistory isn't slowing us down,
not with 24 / 7 underground of New York,
"christ's" critique of the Sabbath in full swing...
it's a clear and utter barricaded proof of a burn-out,
imagine having the routine of a 9 to 5p.m. when
all the major tasks at hand were mediocre by comparison
to fishermen or coal-miners... what then?
burn-out... the first critique of Marxism didn't work...
the second one will, and it will be silent, less warring,
less prone to national agendas and borrowings from
Hinduism... there is a second Marxist critique coming,
but it will turn out to be a masochism for those that
didn't embrace the first critique - as a way to embrace
the invigoration of the category of species rather than
the individual - we now have a species inside a species:
individuals - not necessarily true to the point,
the stresses of biology were perfectly suited to communism,
the stresses of physics are perfectly suited to capitalism,
Oppenheimer: now i've become death, the destroyer
of worlds - given enough 'heimers and we will not necessarily
need atom bombs, just a carbon footprint and a few
selfies on the beeches of Goa, Morocco or elsewhere.

Love.


I grew up in what I later had labelled for me as “une famille anglaise typique” which consisted of me, my brother and my parents. It was as typically happy as those typical families that can be found in typical children’s books and children’s imaginations. We were that ‘close-knit family unit’ type family and we fitted perfectly into that ‘ideal family home’ of our typical red-brick English terraced house. It was one hundred years old but felt older and we went to church on Sundays. We were boring, safe, long-skirted.


We loved each other with the sort of love attributed to our type of nuclear state and I’ve always found it both funny and convenient that nuclear is a word for both bombs and families. Like the people who thought things up had wanted to draw our attention to how we were a touch away from detonation and a mere countdown from demolition.


Mummy blew me full of buck-shots; her Love was fired in rounds. Each cartridge of anger settled deep but left only pleasant traces behind. They lodged beneath my skin, etched with Protection and Compassion and Parenting, and those words bled internally into my immune system so that I knew how to identify hatred and remove the threat of it from my body.


Love.


If you’d asked me of Love I would have said that Daddy rubbed it through my hair when he said “Goodnight” so that it crept through my dreams when I slept. I would have told you how I’d clung to the fence of the infants’ playground until my brother had come to tell me that it was OK to let go. I suppose I might have said that it was an underrated ingredient in Mummy’s baking that she kept in a cupboard all by itself.


I would have passed you as many clichés as you could bear to take and I would have delivered them all in the half-smiling manner of a typical intelligent six-year-old girl.


Love.


We don’t sell clichés anymore. The business of Happy Family Stereotypes fell flat and we bailed out of the sinking ship in divers’ gear that only made us sink faster. Mum forgot to restock her shelf of ingredients and the time for Typical skidded through our fingers like shopping lists and childhood.


It’s not that we no longer lace our shoes with the same strings; only that the strings have been forced to fray and have shortened themselves with knots. It’s not that we don’t continue to Love each other but that we ceased to remember to love ourselves and, when we did that, there was somehow less Love to go round. What should have been an excess curdled and I watched it rise like water vapour from hedges after a frost.


On all of our To Do lists we manage to exclude the most important detail: Love Yourself. If we were to remember the task’s existence then we’d procrastinate a bit until something easier came around. We overlook ourselves and yet people still say that we humans are selfish creatures.



Too selfish to Love ourselves?


It’s not simply that self-deprecation is in fashion (although it is) or merely because we want to draw pity from those who spectate our lives (although we do) because it is with utmost sincerity that my friend and I agree that “if I was my friend, I’d loath me.”


We sit in town on benches by the fountain that sometimes forgets to spout water and rinse out the colours of our lives in the summer rain.


She says;


“Sometimes I’m scared that my friends don’t like me, because I can only ever see myself as annoying.”


I say;


“That isn’t a 'Sometimes' thing, Evelyn.”


Love.


It’s such a difficult thing to hold onto; like an idea or an aftertaste.


She laughs like I was cracking jokes on the paving slabs and says;


“Do you think we’ll ever grow up?”


And I ponder it because I know we’ll grow old but that’s not really the same thing at all. I wonder if I’ll ever grow out of my petulance and fantasies and idiocies and excuses.


“Not really. I don’t want to, to be honest.” To be honest; I say it like I'm the sort of person who wears truths around their neck and invites others to borrow them.


“Me neither. Everyone wants to fast-forward to Prom and then hold time there like, like, I dunno - like they would hold someone’s hand.”


“I don’t.” How relieving it is to confess that I have no interest in the event that 'you just have' to Love.


“Me neither.”


“It’s just an awkward excuse for dressing up and then standing around, pretending to look pretty.”


“You going with anyone?”


“Of course I’m not,” I laugh and hope that she isn’t either so that we can carry on being two lonely, ignorant, inexperienced best friends who’ve never tasted kisses and who have no concept of the term voluptuous. Boys don't fancy girls with flat-chests and freckles.


“You should go with Aidan.”


“Why, because we’re both as short as each other?”


Love.


I laugh at her suggestion even though I know how stepped-on I’ll feel when he arrives at Prom with a tie in a shade that fits my dress and an arm around another girl.


When I was nine, I followed an instruction manual for making a Secrets Box and the first secret I squirreled away was his name. I wrote it on a piece of paper and punched love hearts into it with red pen.


Love.


These days we’ve taken to exchanging banter in Tutor or Maths and I always make sure that I never make anything that’s too much like eye contact in case of humiliation. I busy myself with the fear that, if he looked at me too closely, he’d realise that I was staring back at him with my nine-year-old self. He’d recognise in my face that I still have the secrets box, empty of all but his name, and although I don’t quite believe that I’m in love with him I know that I smile inside when we have good conversations. I know that if he asks me to Prom, I’ll say yes and not just because he is the only boy with whom I am on eye-level.


Love.


“It’d be cute,” she says and I lean away, holding up my hands as a protest and a shield.


“God no.”


And here I go, hating myself again because I have absolutely no intention of ever telling her that I keep my heart like a secrets box. I confide enough in her to say that I don’t care for myself but starve myself of honesty when it comes to caring for someone else. For which, in turn, I procrastinate on the task of self-centeredness a little longer.


Love.


I don’t know much about Love. I know that there are four types – Philia, Storge, Eros, Agape – but who could say where exactly they filter into my life? I know that I ‘love’ beaches, I ‘love’ Rolos, I ‘love’ pencil sharpenings and the smell of good books but the truth is that, when it comes to Love, I'm a sherbet love heart that's been left to dissolve in a glass-jar ocean. I'm a Cadbury's Dream that chose to melt itself out. I’m a strawberry lace that someone likes to chew the end of.

We are a dangerous lot
We play a dangerous game
We know this…. But keep at it all the same

We are wild, not tame
We roam this vast, wild, sometimes friendly… sometimes unfriendly… plain
This sun scorched wilderness, this rough terrain

We get to carry a burden, such a heavy load
To work our way up the food chain
Life is a ragged road

To stand up and face a predator
While still preying on vulnerable prey
This is how it is, the law of the jungle

This line doesn’t belong here right? Still... I should probably end it with something that rhymes, like ‘pray’

The law of the strong
The jaw that can snap a neck bone
The claw of the jungle

The dominant ones have their way… it’s quite clear
The lesser ones will cower in fear
And those that spectate watch from a distance, and do not interfere

Let nature take its course
I have said enough, I await your feedback, for  this poem was metaphorical and not literal… of course
And so, kindly, if you will... engage me, the author, in profound discourse.

dark’s peering into day,
wonder when the dew’ll lay;
time’s slowed as skies turn static,
least the hours are less erratic.
orange lamps glow
outside a misted window;
earthy rain’s falling hard
but fire’s lit and sky is starred.
sometimes mist deceives the eyes:
seen silent figures’ quick demise.
ocean spits over the pier,
almost as grey as the Wear;
lighthouse shines it’s steely beam,
illuminating the horizon’s seam.
heaven’s sealed with wrought dull iron,
far away seems unearthly Zion;
harvest moon’s not as vague:
illuminating an eight-legged plague.
crows spectate above and below,
you’d be surprised what they know;
change leers at every bend,
nostalgia seems an only friend.
the veil is thinner than before,
perhaps open is another door;
harvest season’s coming to an end,
fields of Elysium this way wend.

Behold my face, so serene, I'm every part of the scene;
the crucified, the prosecutor as well the chorus.
When I breath my chests cage shows gaps ,the focus.
Here you are again my parade of pestilence my imbalanced state showing as ailments.
My sides tearing, stress penetrating my skin. Tragic,
Oh how the spear of reproach entangles and dives deep,
Piercing my belly and lets it noxious poison seep.

I beg 'No please do not twist', he then spoke of my dying dreams and loses to the soul.
The knots bind my thought and any move in conciseness has it toll.
The darkness strives for my sight but he knows how to not give it room.
The poisoned tip barley nearly missed my heart , I thought it the end, I relaxed too soon.
The tincture of doubt burns my open sensitive soft non-flesh.
Am I not one of the blessed, where is my place of rest?

The jury spectate from its pedestal, good for nothin but blaming.
His aim was never my life only that which makes it worth living.
His aim was the spark, my soul, the light at the end of the tunnel showing it all, so you don't stay down when you fall.

The earth knows me from My hands, feet and knees.
I rarely pray only spoke if it preceded an action, I fell a lot you see.
Now I walk with caution but my legs can barely take the weight.
My breathing and steps were heavy. you wouldn't have know my pain by my face
This has been my truth I believed it fate.
Early I realized wherever I sat was a throne.
Hubris led me to take on the woes and faults of the world as if they were my own.

The jury clamor great hollow truths, to lessen the sentences existence.
As much as they are valid and grand I see them only as excuses
"You will pain those who you love and love you"
"You will forsake the hopes and dreams in your view"
"You are good, only want the best for everyone "
Was it that ambiguity that lead to my current "wrong"
Seems if you aim to give others happiness you will never win
I know this but I still hurt: it's all starts and ends within.

Woe is me

Death Reigns

Where to register you?
My dearest brother and sister!
Among the rebels or adherents?
Has this paradise so devolved?
Discharge of bullets now common,
Pactised length and breath freely.
Terrorists claiming to fight terrorists?
The license handed to oppressors.
Teens out to spectate the show,
Never to walk home evermore.
Souls lost and bodies bloodied,
Who bears the guilt of wanton slaughter?
Lust for violence in their hearts,
So easily to fire into a crowd?
No difference between agitators and innocents?
A people whose lives mean so little?
How do you justify the loss of humanity?
Blood shed and death reigns victorious,
Young lives lost... A future gone dark.

© Perveiz Ali

When I see you walking towards me
It is as if someone is filling my glass with wine,
And I am filled with pleasant anticipation
Watching it rise in the smooth, curving crystal,
And I am freed from space and time
And from the world of matter
To drift above us both in the music that I hear
And to spectate on everything that happens
As the pour approaches the brim,
So beckoning and so clear.

i'm starting to get the riff of the argument...
how people talk about this
grand... "singularity"...
    of consciousness, of, what not...
                            what?
how about we settle the whole free speech
debate, first?
learn to crawl before you learn
to walk, and walk before you start
to jump, and jump before elevating it
to acrobatic gymnastics?
    why is no one talking abut
the great convergence?
           hell... free speech this,
free speech that...
                        but... why is everyone
so shy of the establishing
a verbal "chess match" of dialectics?
                    with every comment sections,
there is no comment to begin with...
   the original comment, simply,
becomes lost in what ends up being neither
an echo in a cave, or a plateau with
a credible echo possibility...
it's the common thread of when
science fiction takes over science...
           science fiction jumps three steps ahead
of science... and then the backlash:
the reality didn't catch up
to the science!
                    what to do what to do?!
this free speech, "debate" is missing
the key ingredient...
  i'm sure neither side wants to be right...
but at the same time...
neither side wants to entertain
engaging in dialectics...
   sorry... neither side does...
verbal chess doesn't work upon
solidifying your exodus from the Agora
with a smug-face...
looking pristine, not once challenged
by your own thought to
induce the emotions of doubt...
the point of a dialectic is:
your opinions, comply with my own
opinions, even though they are
divergent ontology...
yet they still have the potential
to comply with what is otherwise
known as the: collective convergence...
however in-line with a dichotomy,
first a convergence must
be established, before the utopian
singularity is sourced as
a rigid architecture of the future...
both sides can speak...
but since neither sides are speaking
to each other...
   a dualism becomes a dichotomy
that doesn't become a dialectics...
less words?

   duality = dichotomy ≠ dialectics...

these companies are not attacking free
speech per se...
    even i can't see any potential
for dialectics...
   i entertain dialectic with
old men on park benches...
  
and that's about it...
           if you can't reason with someone
who's the antithesis of you?
you can't begin to reason with anyone,
esp. yourself!

no, there are certain obstructions
you can't shift... mountains
(last time i heard): were supposed
to be unmovable...
  because they befitted
the metaphor category of wisdom
in man... along with the rivers
and the seas... the forests and the deserts...

no... these people are not going after
free speech...
they're seeking environments where
they can spectate dialectics!
no one wants the sort of free speech
whereby there's an emphasis on
the investment of stating the already
given certainty:
                                "but they're my opinions,
and i'm entitled to have them"...

and i was going to posit a genesis
of dialectics from such a defensive
starting point?! no!
the sacred has already been stated...
so... what dialectic attachment
point do i take?

       none?! you're joking, right?!
none?!
     so one side says one thing,
the other says its own thing...
and i'm... i'm hearing the concept
of "the" singularity"...
but what about the grand *convergence?!

******* milkshake / cocktail of
a humanity's worth of coherence...
it's not like anyone argued
with Hey-Zeus Crisp either...
if they did... they argued around
the ground of also enforcing
   blackmail...
                    they argue... sure...
they disagreed...
but the low-hanging fruit said to them:
he's still going to hang...

see... i'm not even sure i wrote that,
the plethora of doubt
is... so much more entertaining
to preserve the dignity of thought...
than it is to arrive at the plateau of
faith... or the down-trodden
bleeding heart of outright denial...
denial...
              such a boring reality...

you never deny the existence of ghosts,
you always doubt the existence of ghosts...
because, with a denial of the existence
of ghosts?
you put your faith into kettles
switching off while the water has
boiled to 100 degrees Celsius...
    traffic always travels clockwise
on an English roundabout...

  like Sartre noted:
  negation is an article of bad faith...
and... the Quran doesn't
have a word for those
St. Thomas affiliate...
             a denier is a non-believer...
but the book doesn't have a name for...
a doubter... a quasi- / pseudo-believer...
which is asking the BIG question
within the demands to revise the Islamic
text to reconsider those who out-rightly
deny... and those who simply
base their faith...
not on the certainty of faith,
but on the uncertainty of doubt...
treating death with the focus of a child...
like a roller-coaster...
         well... everything from imagination,
memory and thought is intact
upon the birth-death "seance"...
everything is still undeveloped at
the death-birth celebration...
why take away from people the thrill
of death, feeding them certainty,
why stigmatize doubt?
              
   i wasn't born into a certainty
even if i was given a body,
the body delayed my possession of thought...
please... let me the allowance
of having the possession of thought
to delay whatever is left of
a possession of body...
               however that might translate
into its own negation,
of the elevated thought into a post-scriptum
of soul...
               don't think i don't think
myself as mortal...
   but i want to survive the plague
of what others fear...
that some day the party will be over...
for me the party never began...
   and i'm ready for the grand
YWN                      to tAke my heArt.

I fell in love at 17,
19,
21,
22,
23
23.

You’re pretty
Beautiful,
In the way you
Speak
Walk,
Talk,
Look at me,
And all our friends
Who spectate
Agree.

What I need
Is to live, learn
And love
A time where
The only lies
I tell
Are to myself,
Alone
In the confines
Of a simple life.

It’s not fair,
To let you into
A mind,
Heart,
Life,
That may not be
Capable of truly
Letting your heart
Reside
Anywhere
Close
To
Mine.

It
Will end
With a broken heart,
Guaranteed.

I can’t
Even let
You start.

My apologies.

A song of beauty, a storm of sadness
Coexist in my heart
Neath the stone cold outer, it hurts and heals
Letting in gale after gale, not once the lock holding fast
Limerence and love collide, collide
Reality and fantasy alternate, tide after tide

In one life, we live a million different lives
In one life, we traverse a thousand miles
Knowing or unknowing, we touch many a life
Some left despondent, some with smiles

So much to do, so much to say
So much regret we carry, each and every day
So many lessons learnt, yet not one nigh
Not one nigh the art of saying goodbye

Clouded by hunger and bound by thirst
We see what we want to, unless coerced
Nostalgic, for the past we mourn and yearn
The present awaits us, undiscerned
Life passes us by, mutely we spectate
Gate-crashed by ebbs and flows, rendered desolate

We do things wrong, we do them right
Lost in the immense horizon, we lose sight
Whatever our secrets, we confide in the night
For, the moon and stars, hold wisdom erudite

Long after it is gone, we stay and wait
What holds us back, it never abates
All the will we summon goes awry
For never have we known the art of saying goodbye

The mix and match of minds at hand with attitudes diverse
compel me to make comment that some may find adverse,
Some may find a reason to launch to fierce attack
Whilst others choose to spectate sipping beer and sitting back.

It seems we have proponents of a new unsubtle mix
Who breeze in with their verbal fangs and talons fiercely fixed,
Who at the slightest pretext take offence and go to war
Leaving innocence astounded, open mouthed, upon the floor.

Some here  can handle criticism, others clearly can't
And some perceive this helpful and others simply shan't,
But our greatest single asset is this freedom flow of words
where opinions and convictions are divested and diverged,
Where compliments and attitudes should be taken in our stride
And barking, fierce rejoiners must, perhaps... remain outside.

Ruffled feathers agitate but few intend offence
Interpretations differ... but in truth, with common sense,
Accommodation can be made without hot anger's flame
So let's bury the invective and get on with Shakespeare's game.

M.

I feel an enormous serenity - floating in some lover's limbo.

Spectate the scene in silhouette.

While bittersweet coffee cuddles my palette.

I can finally breathe.

So why do I feel like a survivalist?

On a long haul where perceptions hinder.

For now I stay floating.

I would re-name the planets after galaxies in your eyes.
The stars finally know what it feels like to burn with envy.
There are constellations tracing the soft skin of your back.
Following dips and curves, I would draw maps with *******
of everything that matters.

Freshman science taught us about untouched miracles;
and just like that-
the ultraviolet cosmic phenomenon
fixed us to spiral arms in far-away planetary
nebulas, like the ringed Cat’s Eye.

The milky skies whispered
so that only we could hear,
"Heaven's dust will fall"
You feared last night you could hear the earth
cracking under the weight of the universe,

paralyzed with a crippling guilt
you'll only see the stars after they've died.
Neighboring nova would spectate
our telescopic wavelengths-
needing the prisms to reflect on

our kaleidoscope refractions.
No matter the efforts of a tangible spectrum,
one could never quite touch our frequency.
Between lazy and lively,
our whitecap love remained visibly invisible.  

Our infrared vessel to space, raced clusters of runaway stars
past post-distant intergalactic bodies,
shooting through beasts, astrologies, gods.
We window shopped stellar bursts of dust clouds
above our clouds, a gravity shelter.

Meteors became our faithful companions
glowing gassy flowers of dusty debris.
The pressure (we couldn’t touch) generates combustion;
atoms gazing psychedelic pinks, greens,
soothing tones of aquamarines.

Ever since then you've been the glittering
black hole, heaving me in.
The only thing I’m able to taste is  
the way your luminous Milky Way kiss
gives gifts of halos to terrestrial light rays.

But the flavor of your lips are the
battalions inspiring the star shining front lines-
Integrity a marathon taking laps
to the moon
to Pluto and back, the long way.

Blizzards of stars rewrite our language
in the moon beams,
guiding us past lost letters to Pluto.
How do you sleep among dancing stars
while the rest of the universe watches?

I made my home in your eyes
and you made your home in the sky.

He knows no truth he who never lied
For how can he know what's lie or truth?
He who never died has never lived
For he who has lived has died
He knows not real joy if he never cried
For after the tears comes the reality of joy
Expect them who broke rules to abide
For unlike the meek,have nothing to hide
Those who have won will win again
For they know the reality of glory
While failures will fail again and again
'Cause they are already used to the story
Yes, fools they say never learn
Why?Wise men of today never teach
You don't play with fire you'll not burn
But we get to know by the boundaries we breach
Who know spectate,who don't are on pitch
Sometimes, hard to tell Bull from the *****
People learn the rules to know the cracks
And those are the point they hit to break them
Not guilty these days doesn't mean innocent
The boundaries of law can be stretched and bent
If you have to embezzle, take billions
Otherwise steal chicken and you'll be fed to lions

The love hate relationship with food,
is so strong. It consumes your life. It is on your mind every second of the day. It becomes your only reason for it all. The only source of contentment, but also the source of your fear, your self hatred, you want it so bad but you abstain because you're scared of the guilt and the consequences you will subject yourself too. To earn your right to feel happy. You impulsively exercise to extremes. And your peers will applaud your dying body.  You have to keep the routine because without it  you are terrified of the free time without focus, because the cycle of hunger and hate will set in. Society has convinced you you're not worthy of love unless you are a *******. If my peers knew the state of my mind they'd ridicule me for not being manly. There are moments, everyday, when you spectate a battle of reason and anxiety in your head.
And all the while you're on a timer. Counting down as your heart rate slows, organs strain and cease, friends drift away from your inability to pretend you're ok, and you are left alone and family beg for your sanity, because you inconvenience them. Everyday, ending it all seems the best solution, but you know better than most, how hard you are to ****. You're also a coward. If there is no intervention you will die, slowly, but assuredly you will. You have the final say.

There is a Japanese man
living inside me
Who walks bare foot across my soul
dazed and
mumbling to himself
In language i dont understand
He doesnt bother me
so i permit him
to sleep on my heart
spectate my dreams
and eat whatever
ego he can find
Although i can tell
he is not happy
here

Prize fight ,love and war

War torn love, a constant battle
Plans to make a moment stand for something
Trying to show this is real
But no skin can touch until we heal
Wild eyes meet and gaze
How to touch is what’s on their brains
The hurt and guilt can not faze
Endless though, his mind a maze
Guilt grenades explode so fierce
Echoed crying Is all we hear
And even when they close their eyes
Guns still fire and friends still lie
Trauma strikes them deep,
in hopes to knock them from their feet
Blood still rains from passions sky
Birds all fall instead of dive
Barbed wire catches though of hope
Silent night steals smiles
And even when this war starts to slow
People shake in fear of more
All who are left to stand
Look around ,blood dripping from their hands
Terror shaking their core
Breathing starts to sore
But no sound brakes this new found state
Warriors turn to spectate
A new force begins to take its form
Wars scary presence hold them in their place
They know something new may await
The two lovers eyes well up
A prize fight has taken place
Have they won what feels so great?
Or is this a break..
War still leaves a bitter taste,
But they stand still afraid of haste
Silence fills the dark
The only light is their shared spark
Angry love twisted in fear
Has proven how they both feel
War still plagues, but hope is felt
And two hands reach out
And they haven’t fell

A spectacle to spectate try to relate

Young lad, riding in the back, of an automobile
He had my eyes, mouth, and voice he was real
Family accompanies his ride, looking happy but in strife
Wondering when they will die

His gaze strays outside, a car window helps his mind
Decide when he will die

Wishes of a faster
Journey here there after

Balance your sunlight with the sun's time left in the sky
A microcosm of being alive.

Just as he had gotten used to the ride
A window parallel caught his eye
Silently the glass violently tried
To contain all of what's kept inside
Her radiance transcended space and time
A momentary velocity decline

The boy's stoic face Illuminated by his fate
Could she teach him how to feel
She had her own eyes, her own mouth, her own voice
Her words were real

They both rode into the night with conversing eyes aligned
Their souls locked inside Made their way outside
Formed wings on each side As our speed did decline
Life ascended to heights past the sky so high

Stars so luminous, in their burning brilliance
Dancing close and slow, across the cosmos
Past the black veil of night
Immersed in the divine as passengers in flight

Redefining the sensual spectrum of existence
To realms exceeding mere mortal limits

Ears filled with enrapturing sounds
A majestic ocean crashing into the clouds
Eyes wide and so alive, hues blended to combine
Colors not yet realized, Only to disperse into
A wondrous barrage of bright

Bright, Bright, Bright warm breeze
It smiled at me
Washing over so subtle and serene

But as darkness does glow, and as curtains do close
The sky softly whispered to me in repose

Feel it all so deep in your bones
Take this all with you when you go
Love, Love, Love, will keep you above
Above all remember to take it slow.

Eyelids raised now lying awake
Your rhythm in my heart
Quintessence in my veins
I knew that life, would be yours,
and ours to take.

There's a field
Planted with blooming floras all over
At the middle of it
There's a huge bungalow
You'll get to see
Harpy eagles flying around it
Just to make sure no one touches the owner
A river splits at the breadths of the field
Flowing the freshest water from the summits of the mountains behind
The splitting river leads to a beautiful sea
Making the width of the field a perfect shore for anyone to enjoy
The beautiful horizon whenever the sun sets
And at every middle of the month
When time passes twilight
You'll get to see half of the moon appearing across the horizon
Giving you the opportunity to spectate it's beauty

Baby,
That's just the place for you and me.

Everyone is awake now
-or asleep
Either way they're in some kind of state
If one were to spectate there'd be no need for narration
If one chose to read the book would need no pages
Without any lines to read between
Their story would be but one sentence
Subject, adjective, verb
Full stop

I am in no state
-or rather I have no state
Never quite sleeping, never fully awake
Like an opera in an unknown language
Like a unfinished book
The storyline impossible to follow
With spaces so large in between the lines
Silence, stillness, thought
Question mark.

Its a heart-wrenching feeling.

When reality strikes you like a lightning bolt.

Those words are no longer used to describe you.
Those eyes are not reserved for you anymore.
Those thoughts,
Those beautiful thoughts.

They're no longer about you.
They are about her.

She is beauty.
What's not to love?
That laughter of hers that echoes through the room.
Echoes through your mind.
That perfectly shaped body.
Pieced together wonderfully, gracefully, beautifully.
She was made for loving.
Everything she is,
All she radiates,
It's love.
From the kindness in her eyes,
To her gleaming smile.
That's her.

She's the one you never were,
Never will be.
She's who you want to be.
She's everything you die for.
You long for, but can never reach.

So, stand along, spectate.
Stand along and watch the show.
Watch his new obsession unravel and blossom before you.
What do you know?
Just in time for spring.

Watch her take over.

Fear not, dear nightingale
The doves won't stay
She is there, only to spectate the beauty of the world
Gazing down from the otherworldly iridescence

AFRICA

A land so rich
A land where a settler settled
I call you by name ooh Africa
A land that is so sumptuous and ample
A continent of trait that not only I construe
A land so modest yet cumulate all nations wide
A continent where neighbors endlessly come to go

AFRICA
What do you do when I do?
I have been and still the culprit of your misfortune
I cloak in bargain muteness to clutch your fortune
I depicted that you can’t be on your own for me to smugly
I dish only for myself and replicate to my safe home
I rejoice whilst you last in your decayed land
I scale the degree of my home’s fortune
That definitive its own range whilst you remain wretched

AFRICA
What do you do when I do?
You spectate all my moves without evolvement
You call me master whilst you remain impoverished
You are suppressed by mentally inferior
You dictate your move on my command
Africa awake……Africa awake

Directions?
October 1, 2012

My life as an unfinished portrait.
I trace lines through the veins of my brain.
Place down these paper thoughts.
Distinguish between what I teach myself and have been taught.

Let me get this straight.
I can only be one person?
Get a single choice of the careers I'm searching.
Only to make it under the burden of weight.

Each step closer, closer, is saying no to no longer options
I feel this is a mean means to an end.
Need to follow the signs, but of which signals I send?
Leaves me tying corners together, assimilating assumptions.

Put on a pair of glasses to spectate.
I sit in the hot seat until I matriculate.